"awad" poems
GARBAGE SPACE SOUL TRASH
by Michelle Awad
This city
doesn’t do earth sounds,
it speaks
in tongues,
otherworldly garbled
nonsense,
she says
melted sugar,
she says
orange glaze,
don’t listen, there is no
such thing
as listening, open
your mouth, concentrate
on
on the vibrations,
my
bloodstream feels
buoyant,
and willing; this
city says she
was here
before the Ice Age and the
Big Bang. The liquor store
around the corner
sells butterscotch pudding
that’ll knock you dead, and
you’ll say thank you,
but it will sound
like cinnamon.
I was 26
when I moved here,
a little young
for my age, I slept
alone
except for when
I didn’t, I learned
to play the violin
on his heartstrings,
I learned there’s no such
thing
as good whiskey, but
you
don’t drink it
for the taste.
This city
doesn’t do earth sounds,
doesn’t do love songs,
doesn’t do good morning
texts, I tell you—just
a drum beat you hear as
a confession, a sax solo that
needs an RSVP, it’s okay
to be a little less, to be
a little more
than human, when it’s
healthy, just some good
old-fashioned
trash soul space garbage,
some crushed velvet in your
veins, just
goosebumps and
smoke rings, and you’d look
like a lava lamp if they opened
you up, honey. And you only
hear it
if you forget everything you know
about everything, about
language,
and logic, there’s no
room for biology
when she says
lemon zest, she says
turmeric, she says
nape of my neck.
You lick your lips.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 3:23 PM UTC
ARE YOU THERE ELVIS? IT’S ME, MICHELLE
by Michelle Awad
My grandmother only
cries
in the face of death,
and even then,
it is shrouded in
laughter,
like her body is
rejecting
the notion.
I have come to
understand
that this
is hereditary.
Now.
An appointment card
arrives
in the mail for you,
she breaks down;
“Blue Christmas” plays
through the car stereo,
she breaks down;
she doesn’t sleep, she thinks
she can hear you
moaning and coughing
in the next room. Yesterday,
my aunt asked her
a question,
and she told her
she didn’t know,
to go ask
you.
I remember your hands,
as dandelion wishes, and
the smell of
lawn clippings,
and
a stack of
word search puzzle booklets
on your side table, but
I never catch myself
talking about you
in the present tense.
It's something
I deeply wish
was hereditary.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 3:16 PM UTC
ON ALL THE DIFFERENT WAYS TO BE HUNGRY
by Michelle Awad
My front porch
might as well be
Heaven’s Gate, might
as well be a rain forest,
might as well be
a coliseum, an alter,
a library.
A man
walks by
on the sidewalk,
I make eye contact,
and wave, he asks me,
if I have a few dollars
or some change, he
calls me
ma’am, and
I say, no, I’m sorry.
The no is a lie.
The sorry is only
a
half-lie, as sorries
often
are, he waves and
continues on his way,
I notice his sport coat,
his dark-wash jeans,
he’s a little scruffy of
face, but otherwise
he
does not look
to be wanting,
but
what does that mean,
in the grand scheme
of things, I think.
I don’t look
like I cried myself
to sleep.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 3:29 PM UTC
THE WORST PART OF A BREAK-UP
by Michelle Awad
is not the screaming,
not the gut-clenching
holding/un-holding,
fighting
back tears, it’s not the
I can’t do this anymores, or
this isn’t workings, not the
storming out, or the
returning
house keys, or
the picking up your
things,
you left them here,
they’re
in a box on the porch
if you want them back, or I
can give them to Goodwill.
Either way, you have a
week.
The worst part
of a break-up
is
much bigger
much quieter
much later
it’s
that I can’t find
a **** picture
of myself that isn’t
a picture of you,
it’s
deleting them,
it’s
selling those
concert tickets,
it’s unremembering,
phone numbers,
and birthdays, and what
you’d find funny, it’s
wanting to tell you,
it's
the ritual,
the cleansing,
the
things that we
do,
the things that we
have
to do,
to pretend
that
we’re not actually
breaking.3
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 3:14 PM UTC
IRRECONCILABLE DIFFERENCES
by Michelle Awad
I burst
forth,
slimy,
sticky,
slippery,
red,
I never stopped
being red, actually,
crying,
always crying,
maybe that’s why
I try not to
lately,
they gave me
to my mother,
and she laughed,
what the hell
am I gonna
do with you,
my father
was in the room,
or maybe he wasn’t,
probably
he wasn’t,
the second thing
I knew
after the warmth of
the womb
was the coldness of
space. My father,
the Great Collector,
of bar stools,
and gasoline
receipts, of
more women’s children
than he knew
what to do with;
I thank
whatever God
there is
for my mother,
lying there,
slimy,
sticky,
slippery,
red,
because of me,
not unafraid,
but brave,
they gave me
to her,
and she laughed,
what the hell
am I gonna
do with you,
she said, and she never
got an answer
any more
than he did.
She loved me anyway.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 3:10 PM UTC
SOCIAL DISTANCING
by Michelle Awad
I have tried
swallowing
my pride, but my
pride
is jagged of edge
and bitter of taste,
I have
to **** on it
for a while
before
it’ll go down
properly. Too often,
loving myself is like
taking a dry pill,
there is always
this thing stuck
in my esophagus,
and I think maybe it’s
words, so here I am, and
I think maybe it’s
shameful,
so here I am, I
went inside
just now
thinking I’d lay myself
in your lap
without warning,
but the mood
wasn’t right, I don’t know
how else to explain it,
it feels like
we are low on battery,
we need charging,
it’s a
blackout, we’re a city,
I
don’t know how else to
explain it, and how do
you
begin to repair what
is
broken in ways
you
can’t explain? So
instead
I sat on the opposite end
of the couch,
I listened to you
relay
a conversation you were
having
with technology. You
are an excellent translator,
but this isn’t my idea
of communicating. I
decided
to come outside and
write this,
instead of kissing you,
and that sounds crazy to me,
to do anything
instead of kissing you,
that’s ******* crazy, all we
ever
talk about
is this ******* quarantine,
how on earth
do we feel
so far apart lately.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 3:19 PM UTC